Fights and Fairway Drivers
by laddertoheaven
Summary: Stan and friends are eager to escape boredom and, one day, discover the not-so-wondrous but slightly amusing game of disc golf. Punching and waffles are involved. (Also, pre-slash, I suppose? I didn't plan it, oh well.)


**A/N: **_I've been hanging onto this story for about two months and it's gone through three different rewrites. This is the one I'm the most satisfied with, but I'm still totally unsure of it. Also it's kind of my first (public) South Park fic. In any case, I apologize in advance. Happy(?) reading._

* * *

Stan's room remained silent like the town hall on bingo night, even when his mother came in with snacks and quietly scolded him for leaving his clothes scattered near the bed. As he bit into an apple slice and watched brown and red leaves fall outside his window, Stan thought of how he actually would rather be playing bingo than continue to sit at his computer, knees drawn up to his chest, fiddling around on South Park High's track & field message board on a chilly Friday afternoon.

His friends lounged about in his dimly lit, messy bedroom, posters and books lining two of four off-white walls. Kyle was nearest in proximity. His pencil drifted lazily across precalc homework, eyes out of focus. He absentmindedly twirled a red curl around his index finger.

At four-thirty, Kenny let out a loud yawn.

At four-thirty-two, Cartman cracked his knuckles. It was particularly loud.

Sparky came in twice, nosing Stan's clothes and sniffing the air. He left each time looking just as mildly despondent as the rest of them.

Around four-forty, Stan came across a post from a fellow teammate detailing his previous weekend to the rest of the members, comprised of twelve boys, Stan being one of three seniors. This post was from a Clyde Donovan who, like Stan, switched to track from football after freshman year. Something about running just appealed to Stan more — perhaps it was the thrill of oxygen whooping in his lungs with each sprint, or maybe the feel of escaping the clutches of some nameless, faceless thing.

As a boy, he used to think teenagers had it easy. Now, he wasn't quite so sure. Rather than dwell on it, Stan turned his attention to the message board:

_Hey guys this weekend I wanted to try not being lazy :-) I went and played disc Golf w/ some friends, it was fun! and it's free. Great way to limber up for upcoming meets. Go to Park co. Disc Golf course, up near CO springs. Bring water & look up the rules. _

_Bring friends too, don't play alone 'cause that's dumb. — good advice from a friend of mine!_

Stan was prepared to bet his month's paycheck that the "friend" was Craig. After skimming a Wikipedia article on the subject, he thought that disc golf sounded slightly ridiculous, yet potentially entertaining — for one day, at least.

"Hey," he announced, and it wasn't quite like shouting _BINGO!_ but he was audible enough to make everyone look up. Kyle tore his gaze away from his textbook, pausing mid-twirl. "You guys ever play…what's-it, disc golf?"

"Disc what?" Kenny asked, hood down, playing with the strings on his pullover.

"Golf."

"Sounds lame," Cartman grunted.

"And boring," Kyle agreed disdainfully. "What do you do?"

Swinging the chair back around, Stan scrolled down the Wiki article. "So for eighteen holes you aim frisbees at a chain basket, that's the target." He pointed to the picture accompanying the article: a metal pole with chains attached, a circular sign with a number inscribed sitting atop the pole. "You stand on a thing called a tee pad and throw from there. There are different kinds of frisbees. Like a fairway driver. And putters, for close-range throws. There's other kinds, too. You get points based on the closest throws or something."

He turned back to the other boys. Upon seeing that Kenny had his hand up, Stan raised an eyebrow and decided to humor him, jabbing his finger in Kenny's direction.

"The fuck is all that stuff you just said?"

Cartman laughed while Kyle snorted, much to Stan's chagrin. "It's like normal golf, but with frisbees," he concluded.

"I don't even play normal golf," Kenny shot back. "Are those the rules, all that text and shit?" he motioned to the computer screen, prompting a quick nod from Stan.

"Boring _and _tedious," Kyle murmured, going back to his homework.

Stan turned back to the article, scrolling a little further down the page. "'_Driving is one of the more dangerous aspects of disc golf as it pertains to pedestrians_,'" he read aloud, raising an eyebrow. "'_It is common to shout "disc" before a drive on holes from which the target cannot be seen from the tee pad_.'"

"Ha!" Cartman barked. "You can _hit _people in this game? Dude, fuck it, count me in."

"You can't hit people," Stan admonished. "It's just that it's _possible_."

"Whatever, it sounds awesome. I own a ton of frisbees, too. We could totally do this."

Kyle stared. "Why the hell do you own a ton of frisbees?"

"None of your business, asshole." Stan suspected that he'd swiped them from various parks over the years. Cartman had developed a habit of picking up discarded items around town; things he thought might have some value, or was just handy as a weapon. No doubt he'd been assembling a collection of frisbees to one day assault someone with.

Rather than pry further, Kyle exhaled through his nose and shut his book. He sat up, spreading pale fingers on wide thighs. "So, what, we're gonna do this?"

Stan shrugged. "It sounds like something to do. A thing to pass the time."

"Who else has played this? Who even plays disc golf? Anyone we know?"

"Clyde Donovan did it."

"Oh, well, if _Clyde's _doing it," Kyle said sarcastically, prompting Stan to throw a crumpled piece of paper at his head. It bounced off Kyle's hair and landed on the carpet.

"So, like," he said after a while, "we can go tomorrow, if you guys want. There's a course in-county, apparently it's near Colorado Springs."

"Tomorrow?" Cartman whined. "Weak, why not now?"

"It'd take too long to get there." Stan turned back to his computer. "You should go get those frisbees, though." He closed a few tabs and minimized Safari, stretching. "We can practice throwing, maybe behind the elementary school —"

"Aw, dude, I don't wanna go there. Garrison's gonna haul open a window and start screeching at us," Kyle groaned. "Let's go to Stark's Pond or something. It's walking distance, anyway."

"Bag that, I don't wanna walk anywhere!"

"It will literally take fifteen minutes, Cartman," Kyle said. "Go get your frisbees now and we'll meet you there, how's that?"

"Shit. Whatever. Kenny, you comin'?"

Kenny hesitated, then stood up. "Yeah." They walked out and Stan turned to Kyle, who sat hunched over and cross-legged. He picked at his brown wool sweater, slightly tight around his waist. A piece of lint landed on his black jeans. Stan noted the marmalade and forest green patterned socks on his feet, wondering what bargain bin Sheila had fished _those _out of.

"Stop staring at my socks," Kyle said, not looking at Stan. "My mom got them at Arc Thrift. And I kinda like them."

Stan threw up his hands defensively. "Whatever makes you happy."

Kyle stuck his tongue out and slid off the bed, stepping into his shoes and putting on his coat on the way out. Stan grabbed a light jacket and called to his mother that he was going out. Once downstairs, he turned right, detouring through the living room to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge. His father napped on the couch while HGTV advertised holiday decorating tips.

A lump grew in his throat; the last thing Stan wanted was another incident _à_ la Food Network. He changed it to TV Land before walking out of the house, closing the front door quietly. He'd rather that his dad woke up to _Bonanza_ than some perky blonde woman picking out throw pillows and accent paint colors. He walked outside and met Kyle on the sidewalk, hands in pockets.

Upon their arrival at Stark's Pond, the boys sat on the bench, bringing their knees together for warmth, joking about last night's rerun of _1000 Ways to Die_. Only when Cartman stepped on a twig, inadvertently announcing his presence, did they stand and walk farther out into the field, stopping near a waste bin where Stan deposited his empty Gatorade bottle.

Cartman set down his backpack, unzipping the topmost lid. Inside were about twenty frisbees of various colors and sizes. Kenny chuckled while Stan let out a low whistle.

"Some of them look…kinda beat up," Kyle remarked, gingerly lifting a yellow frisbee, eyeing it as though it were some primitive curiosity. It appeared true; a few had deep bite marks, probably from neighborhood dogs. Some were scratched up and faded. Cartman frowned, his brow furrowing. Eager to avoid confrontation, Stan took a few out and threw a couple towards the trees.

"They get good distance," he announced, looking over his shoulder at the other three. "Really sturdy. Hey!"

Kenny had thrown a purple putter at his head, wearing a mischievous grin. Stan ducked just in time, unable to catch the object. He threw his own disc back. Stark's Pond soon became a frisbee battleground, ending only when Cartman was struck in the knee with a driver. After hopping around and cursing mostly Kyle, they packed up and slowly trekked back to Stan's house.

Following an evening of pizza and Tekken 4, Cartman and Kenny went home around nine. Kyle, who'd decided to stay overnight, switched to playing Mario Kart. They both fell asleep sometime after two a.m., with Kyle nodding off first. Stan made sure to pull the covers around his shoulders, switching the channel to some black and white movie. He shut his eyes almost immediately, lapsing into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

"Actually, I don't know if I want to do this."

A bit of frost, leftover from dawn's low temperatures, occupied the corner of Stan's windshield. If Stan himself didn't know better, he would've sworn some of it managed to root itself in Kyle's voice. He sat there with his mouth half-open as he stared at Kyle, his left hand stilled on the ejector button.

In the backseat sat Cartman and Kenny, who had been horsing around since they'd gotten in the car. They faltered in their game of swordfighting with McDonald's straws to view the two boys up front, their faces growing curious. Stan felt wholly uncomfortable at the sudden sets of eyes upon him. He made sure to focus only on Kyle, who wore a dark green jacket and a grimace.

"…Dude, we're not even out of the car yet."

"I'm with Kyle, I don't think I wanna do this either," Kenny piped up from the backseat.

"Oh, jeez — c'mon, guys. I explained it to you already, remember? We practiced and everything. It's really simple. It — it might be fun!"

"Fun for you, maybe," Cartman breathed.

"We're using _your _fucking frisbees, Cartman!"

Cartman merely shrugged. A bad feeling rose up in Stan's stomach; a bubbling sort of dread, though that could have been the Sausage McMuffin.

Or maybe this had been the wrong decision all along. Wrong activity, wrong people, wrong everything.

He unbuckled his seatbelt. "Guys, c'mon. I didn't drive an hour and a half for nothing. It's a nice day, the sun's out. There's no one here but us! We have the whole place to ourselves."

"'Cause that's all I ever wanted in life," Kyle deadpanned, "a whole huge _disc golf_ _course_ to frolic in."

Stan set his jaw, annoyed. "It's either this or West Park Mall. Which I've memorized down to the bathroom locations, by the way. We're going to Waffle House after, alright? Guys? Kenny?"

Kenny shrugged. "Alright, fuck it. I'm down."

"Great. Fabulous. I'll get the frisbees." Stan got out of the car, moving around to the back. He lifted the trunk door, pulling out Cartman's backpack and one smaller bag containing water. He'd fought the small space of the bag to get a Fiji bottle in with three other Evians. Kyle refused to drink any other brand, just as he had refused to get up until nine-thirty this morning. Stan had been checking his email when Kyle emitted a ghoulish groan, which wasn't necessarily a sign that he was ready to be amongst the living. More like he was _thinking_ about it.

Perhaps they both should have stayed in bed this morning. Truthfully, Stan would have been content lazing about and playing more Mario Kart all day. But they were here now — Stan figured they might try to make the most of it.

He shut the trunk and started walking. A large blue, rusted gate sat several feet away, hanging wide open. PARK COUNTY DISC GOLF COURSE was stamped in bright colors on an adjacent sign, the wood peeling all around. The air smelled like mulch and dew. Stan fought to keep positive thoughts, his shoes crunching on the pebble-ridden dirt before they reached the grass. Behind him were the other three, trudging along.

They strolled past a park bench on the way to a rectangular base filled with white gravel, bordered by wood. It sat off to the side of the massive field they were in. It wasn't really a course so much as a partial forest with meadows, enclosed by hills and distant mountains. Sitting a fair distance away were some blue flags along with, up the hill furthest from them, a metal pole with chains attached to a wire basket. Atop the pole rested a circular sign, the number "1" barely legible from their standpoint.

"Okay, let's — wait, where's Kenny?"

The other two turned to see that Kenny had vanished. Fearing the worst, Stan's heart began to sink until the missing boy suddenly appeared from behind a thick bush, zipping the fly of his jeans.

"Sorry," Kenny said sheepishly. "Been holding that all morning."

"You couldn't go at home?" Stan asked, immediately regretting it when Kenny assumed a rather stormy expression. No doubt his parents had been fighting this morning, leaving Kenny no choice but to just get out of the house as fast as possible. It would explain why he had sped-walk down his front steps before Stan had even honked the horn.

"Never mind," Stan stuttered. He set Cartman's backpack down and opened it up, taking out a driver and stepping up to the tee to survey the land.

They were surrounded by vast fields and thick forests; some hills looked steep, others not so much. Up ahead, several hundred feet away, was a chain basket, shining in the sunlight. It stood upon the foot of a grassy hill, wooden beams ejecting from its surface, likely steps up to the next area of the course. It was all wide open, and Stan breathed in deep, a breeze tickling the nape of his neck.

He turned to the others, who were staring at him. Stan swallowed again, his throat feeling a little sore.

"We should probably split up into teams —"

"I call you, Stan," Cartman interrupted. A muscle in Kyle's jaw jumped.

"Uh…okay. Why?" Stan asked, bemused.

"Because I refuse to work with amateurs."

"You still don't even know how the fucking game is played," Kyle scoffed. Cartman ignored him, sauntering over to Stan's side. "Well, Kenny, I guess that leaves you with _Kyle_," Cartman said, his tone practically dripping with self-satisfaction.

Kenny shrugged. "Better than you, asswipe." He straightened his pullover and picked up a putter, strolling to the front of the tee, squinting. A flock of birds flew above them.

That sense of dread was back, doing its very best to make Stan feel queasy with uncertainty. He tried to shake it off, fighting to focus.

"Okay," he breathed. "Okay. Let's play, then."

* * *

Nine holes in, Stan felt he fully understood what drove people to mental breakdowns. So far he'd lost two drivers to the trees, causing Cartman to spew a stream of curses at him. They were down a couple of points compared to the other boys, who were performing surprisingly well. Kyle had improved his throwing technique enough to put them in the lead, though he still struggled to hit far-off targets when he wasn't infrequently announcing his discontent with the game.

"We're only on _ten_? Stan, I can't take this shit anymore," Kyle grated as they climbed another hill, leaves crunching beneath their shoes while they traversed through a woodland area. The wind filled Stan's chest and made him feel alive; whole.

It would have been perfectly wonderful if it weren't for all the goddamn _whining_.

"I fucking concur," Cartman yelled out. "And I have _yet _to hit someone!"

"It's a short course," Stan retorted. "You'll live." He hitched the bag of frisbees up on his shoulder. "Two above par, you _better_ live," he mumbled under his breath.

They climbed up on the next tee, which was situated on a sort of raised platform. Douglas-firs and Ponderosa pines obscured most of the path to the basket, but once Stan adjusted his position, he saw exactly where it was: behind a particularly skinny pine, shining in the partial sunlight.

Kyle picked out a yellow mid-range, a stranger's initials on the back next to a phone number. He backed up a bit on the tee, boots scraping gravel. Kenny observed from the side. "Maybe not so far back," he remarked.

Kyle glanced at him, appearing cross. Regardless, he took his advice and trod closer to the edge of the tee.

"You gonna choke, Kyle?" Cartman snickered.

"Shut up." Without another word, Kyle leapt out, arm thrusting forward. The frisbee spun from his hand, revolving between the firs and landing halfway from the basket. Kyle grinned self-satisfactorily while pacing back for Kenny, whose disc traveled a little farther.

Cartman went first, barely glancing at the basket as he hauled off and chucked his frisbee. It landed a few feet behind Kyle's. Stan ground his teeth noisily, stepping up. He was about to throw when a whispered taunt snaked its way to his ears.

"Choke, choke, choke —"

"_We're on the same team, Cartman_."

Subsequently, when they'd done short-range throws, the score was totaled up five to three.

"Nuh-uh, five to four!" Cartman yelled boisterously. "I got it in the second time with this one!"

"No, you didn't," Kyle said. "It bounced off the rim and onto the ground. Five to three. Your short game sucks."

"It went _in_, though. I _saw_ it."

"You saw what you wanted to see," Kyle finished coolly, picking up the frisbees and turning around to head to the next basket. Kenny chortled as he followed suit. Cartman gaped after both of them before rounding on Stan.

"It went in, I'm fuckin' telling you guys," he babbled. "It went in!"

Stan shook his head. "Five to three."

The next two holes went by quickly. For the thirteenth basket, the boys carefully ambled down yet another hill, this one in the thicker part of the adjoining forest.

"It's not _that_ fun," Kyle told Stan, catching up to him, "but we're winning, so that's cool."

"Psh, whatever. You're lucky Cartman's my partner. I'd be kicking your ass if it was just me and you."

Kyle gave a reluctant smile. "If it was just me and you, we wouldn't be doing this."

"What would we be doing?"

"Something that didn't involved hiking."

"Oh, _please_," Stan said, rolling his eyes. "This isn't hiking! It's a walk in the park compared to _actual _hiking!"

Before Kyle could respond, they heard a yell. Both boys turned to see Cartman sliding down part of the knoll, landing on a wet patch of leaves and dirt.

"Goddammit!" he rumbled, pushing himself up and dusting the debris off the back of his dark jeans. "Stan, I swear to God, if the rest of the course is like this I'm fucking leaving."

"You've been threatening that all day," Kenny called out. "Kyle, too. Both of you, nut up or shut up."

"Fuck you, Kenny!" Cartman heaved, once again slipping and falling flat on his ass. Kenny laughed raucously, hopping a large log.

They walked a little further until they came around a bend and by a long, wide stream, filled with rocks and crystal-clear water. A school of minnows swam by and Stan watched from the little grassy knoll, admiring their tiny fins and the light that glinted off their miniscule scales.

He was transfixed until a loud "A-_hem_" caught his attention. He turned to see the other three staring at him, clearly waiting.

"Sorry," he said. "Uh. Who's throwing?"

"We don't even know where the basket is," Kyle huffed. "There's nothing but trees here."

Stan looked around and sure enough, he couldn't spy a chain basket anywhere. He walked up to a nearby fir and peered all around, to no avail. He frowned a bit, his heart sinking. Surely it had to be _somewhere_? They hadn't even finished the game, and Stan didn't want to quit now. Kyle was his super best friend and all, but for all his complaining, Stan still wanted to see this through until the end. That way he could, at the very least, feel the satisfaction of having finished something.

"Ugh, I don't wanna carry these anymore," Cartman announced loudly, slipping the bag of frisbees off his shoulder. "Here Kenny, you have 'em." He tossed the bag to Kenny, who immediately caught it, shaking his head.

"I don't fuckin' want them," he grunted, suddenly turning to Kyle and pitching the bag forward. "Think fast, Kyle!"

"Wh —" _WHOMP. _

Stan spun around to see Kyle get a faceful of black backpack. He stumbled backwards and, with a strangled outcry, tripped on a rock and fell right into the stream. His head narrowly missed a particularly sharper rock, causing Stan to flinch. He rushed forward and jumped in the water, the other two close behind.

"Holy shit, dude!" he exclaimed, lifting the bag from Kyle's face and tossing it up on the knoll. "You alright?"

Kyle said nothing; for a moment, Stan wasn't sure that he was breathing, until he noticed his heaving chest. His hair floated in the water and he stared straight up at the sky, avoiding Stan's eyes, mouth completely pinched shut. He eventually sat up, lifting himself from the stream bed. His entire backside dripped, his dark blue jeans even darker. Cartman, who was leaning closest, let out a bellowing laugh and pointed obnoxiously at Kyle, as though it were the fourth grade all over again.

"Ha! Haha! The fucking Jew got all wet! Holy crap, I'm gonna piss —"

Before Cartman could say another word, Kyle punched him squarely in the mouth. Cartman fell back, dumbstruck, holding his jaw and covering his teeth, which were starting to bleed. Without warning, Cartman let out a roar and attacked full-on, shoving Kyle back into the stream and landing next to him. They scuffled and Stan could only stare, totally unsure of how this was even happening right now.

"Oh, cool," Kenny said, his voice muffled by the unlit cigarette that had suddenly appeared in his mouth, lighter in the other hand. "I was hoping for some actual action."

"Ken, I don't think you can smoke in the woods," Stan said cautiously, shifting nervously. Kenny shrugged and exhaled, noxious fumes drifting away from them. Stan sighed and jumped forward, trying his best to pry apart Cartman and Kyle, whose nose was bloody and cheek was bruised. He felt a surge of anger in his chest and moved to grab Cartman's collar, his grip tight and unyielding. He shoved Cartman away, lifting Kyle by the scruff of his sweater, as though he were some sort of rowdy, perturbed cat.

"The fuck are you shoving me for?" Cartman spat. "_He _punched _me_! And I didn't even throw the bag at him!"

"You fucked up his face. He only popped you in the mouth, something we've all been wanting to do for years. Shut up."

"Aw, are you mad about Kyle's face, Stan? Is his face precious to you? Do you lavish it with a thousand kisses every night?"

"I said _shut up_, Car —"

"HEY! YOU KIDS BETTER GET OUT OF THERE! STOP HORSIN' AROUND!"

They all jumped and looked up to see a park ranger at the top of the hill above them, hands on his square hips. The ranger spotted Kenny's lit cigarette and Kenny realized this all too late, trying to put it out on the sole of his shoe.

"SMOKING TOO, EH? OUT! OUT! _OUT_!"

"Fuck, get the fuck up, c'mon!" Stan cried out, grabbing Kyle's hand and breaking into a run.

They all reached the car fifteen minutes later, panting heavily and clutching their chests; even Stan, who hadn't expected to actually _run _today. He knew he'd catch hell from his coach on Monday, but Stan had actually hoped to take it easy this weekend. Now he knew he'd have to at least go a couple of miles tomorrow, or just twice around the block.

"Can we…" Cartman wheezed, bent over. "Can we just…"

"Waffle House," Kyle finished for him. "Now."

* * *

They drove in silence for half an hour, the radio on some soft rock station. When they finally pulled in, sat down, and ordered their meals, even Stan said they'd probably never do this again. As he spoke, he looked to Kyle, who gave him a grateful nod. They all ignored strangers' stares, which were aimed mainly at Kyle and Cartman's faces. Kyle's bruise wasn't _so _bad, and Cartman's mouth looked only a little swollen. The fact that a fight had even occurred wasn't alarming, so much that it occurred on a stupid _disc golf _course.

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off a headache as best as possible. It wasn't until he smelled something delicious that he opened his eyes.

"Oh, this looks good," he said as their food arrived. He and Kyle had gotten the same thing; chocolate chip waffles with bacon on the side. Cartman had ordered the biscuits and gravy; Kenny, poached eggs with toast. Each dug in, with Stan trying to ignore the blood spots on Kyle's waffles and Cartman's biscuits.

He looked to Kyle again, thinking that if it _had_ just been the two of them, none of this would have probably happened. Then again, it might have been as Kyle had said — they wouldn't have gone and done this in the first place.

Stan sighed and bit into his bacon. Perhaps they'd just go to West Park Mall next time. They all enjoyed going into stores like Spencer's and making fun of the awful, unfunny t-shirts they sold, as well taking crude pictures with the boxed vibrators.

"Hey guys," Cartman suddenly said through a mouthful of food. The other three looked up at him expectantly. He swallowed and his face broke into a wide grin.

"I _did _get to hit someone today."

They all groaned loudly and proceeded to throw sugar packets at him, pelting his arms and hair as he lifted his arms to shield himself. They finished their food and paid the bill, Kenny covering part of Kyle's portion as way of apology for throwing the bag at him. "I got paid last week," he said. "So don't worry about it." Stan wondered just how much Kenny earned from flipping burgers, but he knew better than to ask that kind of thing.

Two weeks later, Stan and Kyle revisited the course, but only to catch minnows in the stream and eat sandwiches. Cartman was grounded for trying to pelt a neighbor's eight-year old kid with frisbees. Kenny was doing community service by the highway, having received a citation in the mail for public urination the week before from the angry park ranger that, Stan and Kyle mused, either had pretty decent eyesight or a fucking good pair of goggles.

As Stan looked at Kyle while they talked, he figured that even though playing disc golf in itself had been a bit of a disaster, perhaps something had gone right somewhere after all. At least Kyle had been willing to come back here with him. Maybe two more weeks from now, Stan could get him into the game again. Maybe it would go a lot better with just the two of them. Just maybe.

He smiled to himself. It was worth considering, if nothing else at all.


End file.
